


hold me like i'm more than just a friend

by howverypeculiar



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Parentlock, Spooning, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, kinda awkward fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-12
Updated: 2017-02-12
Packaged: 2018-09-23 21:00:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 628
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9676898
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/howverypeculiar/pseuds/howverypeculiar
Summary: One of Sherlock's lone cases cuts deep.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Bit cringe-tastic. More of a lil post-s4 fix-it ficlet than anything else.

John hears the familiar footsteps of Sherlock’s vehemence that only comes after solving a case. Of course, now Rosie’s in the picture it’s less common that it’s the two of them out there together. But the rhythmic creaks of the floorboards weren’t as they usually sounded. They seemed more despondent, more fatigued, more grave. 

“Sherlock?” 

There was no need, nor energy in his body for him to respond. Instead, the door to the lounge of 221b swung open, and in the frame stood a worn-down, bloodshot-eyed Sherlock Holmes.

“Everything okay? You worked out who did it?”

“The step-father. The bloody step-father.”

“Jesus Christ. Monster.”

Sherlock nodded in agreement, and his face creased, suppressing the urge to cry. John stood up and sauntered over, overwhelmed by the grotesque truth of the case, and by Sherlock’s emotions.

“Come here. It’s alright.” 

John’s arms found their way around Sherlock’s slender body, that jerked with each sob. In his despair, Sherlock’s head flopped into the nook of John’s shoulder. It was warm and protecting there. His tears and his curls tickled John’s neck. 

“I’m sorry,” Sherlock choked, “They never used to affect me. But she was three years old, this tiny, innocent child, and I couldn’t help thinking of Rosie, and–”

“Oh, shush, come on now,” John comforted his more-than-friend, “It’s done, it’s over - we’re safe and that’s important.” 

“I wish it was easier for me to think that. Thank you, John.” 

Still wrapped in each others’ embrace they made eye contact, their faces just inches apart. 

“You should get to bed now, Sherlock. I’ll make some tea.” 

John secretly liked evenings like this. As hard as it was for Sherlock - he’d become so much more sensitive to cases involving children since Rosie became part of their lives - he loved the feeling that he could protect Sherlock, the way Sherlock has done for him all this time. As he flicked on the kettle, he could hear the phlump sound, indicating nothing other than Sherlock’s body giving way and tumbling onto his bed. 

John made the tea and brought it through to where his companion was lying. He was pale and washed-out in the face, yet still possessed that undeniably-Sherlock resolute countenance, that raven hair, those gleaming eyes. Eyes shut, world extinguished, he didn’t look so different. But John knew Sherlock better than anyone. And, he never told anyone this, but he knew he could never love another like he loved this man.

“Here. No sugar, it will keep you awake.”

John saw a glint of the eyes he’s all too familiar with, and a small smile formed on Sherlock’s face. “Thank you,” he responded, in a croaky, yet pleased and reassured voice.

“Okay,” John quietly replied. What to do now, he thought. “Anything you need, let me know. Rosie’s fast asleep, but if she rises, I’ll take care of her, no worries. Night.”

“Night-night,” Sherlock affectionately answered.

The moment was still. John slipped away towards the door of the bedroom in his embarrassing navy slippers that he only kept for home. His fingers just touched the doorknob when he heard, “Lie with me.”

“Lie with me, John. Please.”

In reflex, he turned to where the voice he lived to hear came from. Their eyes met. They smiled at each other, because they both knew. Without hesitation, John kicked off the ‘dad-slippers’ (as Sherlock dubbed them) and climbed inside the crisp duvet. They shuffled closer to each other for each other’s warmth and reassurance. His small, slightly rotund frame was the perfect size for Sherlock’s long limbs to clasp themselves around. They’d never done this before, yet it felt more like home like anything else either of them had experienced before.

How desperately they needed one another. His only. His reason. His purpose.


End file.
